


Fumbling Towards Ecstasy

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, Sexual Abuse, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-07
Updated: 2010-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never carried a Bible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fumbling Towards Ecstasy

**FUMBLING TOWARDS ECSTASY**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Sam/Dean; (non-con) John/Dean; Dean/OMC  
 **WARNINGS** : non-censual sex; allusions to abuse; prostitution

  
John never carried a Bible. Every motel you visited, every shithole you stayed in from the time you were six to when you moved out to go to Stanford, maybe even after when you’d go clubbing too late in San Francisco and Jess begged and begged you to buy a room in some cheap place, you’d check the nightstand. It’s only the Gideon Bible, nothing fancy, not like the ones you’ve seen all the monk-wannabe’s on campus carry around, there’s no gold trim or colorful place holder, but you’ve kind of always been fascinated anyways.

Dean thinks you’re nuts. He thinks you’ve lost it or been converted into some kind of Christian cult, but he never says anything, just raises his eyebrow and launches himself onto the other bed, searching for the remote with one hand. Dean’s stoic and unemotional; a fucking brick wall that’s so thick you could put your ear to it and never know there was a heart beating on the other side. You know something went down a long time ago, something unexplained between him and your father, something you could never guess about. He was like you once, sick of the life, sick of having to suck up his emotions so he could hunt down the latest horror of the week. You think he likes the superhero complex just as much as you do, but sometimes – most of the time – you hate being the one to always have to pick up the pieces.

John was never religious or anything, never carried a cross or recited prayers as long as you can remember, but you’ve only known him since the worst moment in his life and you think he was probably a different person before your mom was killed. Dean can only recall a little bit, just a tiny memory of hugs and kisses and warmth, the feeling of your tiny hands wrapping around his finger, your father holding him close as Dean peeks over the crib at you. He remembers Mom even less: the smell of lilies from her hair, how dark her eyes were. He can’t remember if she believed in God, but you ask anyway. He indulges you, tells you she wore this beautiful gold cross around her neck, he tells you it tickled his nose as she leaned over to kiss him goodnight.

These little things, these lies that Dean tells you to stop your heart from shattering into a million pieces, to help you believe that you didn’t kill Jess, that you didn’t kill Mom, these things are why you love Dean so much.

Religion isn’t really anything to you, anyway, because you don’t think you could ever believe in God while knowing what’s out there in the world, what’s ready to disturb such serene peace, what evil really is. One of your psych professors told you that there has to be some kind of ying and yang to the world, sun and moon, black and white, good and evil. If there’s one extreme, the opposite one must also exist to fully benefit both ideals. Some part of you knows there’s something out there, God, Buddha, Allah, whatever, some part of you knows that with all the demons you’ve seen, there has to be something pure, something good, as well.

The other part of you thinks that any kind of belief system not based on facts is utter bullshit.

Halfway through Arizona, you stop at the cheapest motel you can find and just collapse on the bed. You’ve been running on adrenaline for the past thirty-six hours and you knew it was only a few moments before you crashed, just passed out no matter where you were or what you were doing. You catch sight of Dean before your eyes finally close for the last time, flipping through channels with the TV on mute.

When you wake up again, you’re hungry and sore and your feet are cold, naked and dangling off the end of the bed a few inches from where Dean left your shoes. You feel exposed, lying on your stomach with your hands underneath you, your eyes blinking with uncertainty, but no one’s in the room and the television is flickering blue light like it wants to calm you down. You get up to see if you can steal the bathroom from Dean, but he’s not there and you get the strangest feeling like something’s wrong. Like he could be hurt or dead or something. Forgetting your shoes, you charge out the door, your adrenaline rushing again, and you know that your nervous system must be fucked up beyond belief, but it’s not like you even actually care. Hitting the railing outside the door, you grip the bars and peer over to search for the car, the parking space, anything, and you catch sight of a familiar head of brown hair.

You almost don’t make it back inside before you puke.

Dean didn’t see you and you’re really glad because you have no idea what you would say, what to even think of saying, because you’re so fucking scared and shaky, and you’re on your hands and knees over the pile of vomit on the shag carpet, your mouth open and your throat gagging and oh god the smell and you will never be able to get that image out of your head. On your hands and knees, shivering and crying, on your knees just like Dean. Your mouth and oh god oh god your mouth open just like Dean’s.

You’ve never actually seen somebody give a blowjob before. With all the porn you’ve avoided growing up with two other men, living with thirty other guys on campus, with all the porn you’ve never seen, you guess you could use a pointer or two, but seeing Dean give another guy head, you feel like your soul’s been ripped out of your chest.

And then you’re puking all over again, this image in your head, this feeling of surprise and disgust and wanting to just rip out your eyes, you completely miss when Dean starts rubbing your back. He’s whispering in your ear, telling you to relax, and it’s so funny you can’t help but laugh, but it comes out like a sob and then you’re crying so hard your teeth are chattering, your tears are mixing in with whatever you had for breakfast this morning and you’re taking these giant panic breaths through your nose and all you can smell is your sickness, your repulsion. You can’t tell Dean to fuck off, to get the fuck off you because you’d never be able to, because you still love him no matter what, because he’ll always be your brother, but through your hysterical crying jag, you manage to form the words, “How much do you charge?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was possessed or something, the way his hands turn to ice on your back. You can tell he’s thinking about hitting you, about hitting you so hard you might never wake up. Some part of you wants him to, wants him to hurt you so much, to kill you and never feel any remorse, and maybe you’re the masochist, maybe you’re the fucked up one here, hoping Dean will hurt you just so he could touch you from some kind of emotion, even if it has to be anger. Maybe Dean’s normal after all.

His voice is hoarse and his fists are tight, gathering handfuls of your shirt from their positions on your back. “I can’t. I don’t,” he’s angry and damaged and he loves you so much, you can feel it, “I never wanted you to find out.”

Your mouth tastes foul. “Why? Didn’t think I could take it?”

And he’s laughing, that fucking son of a bitch, he’s laughing in your face, soft and bitter. And he goes, “Obviously not.”

You want to get up, to move and pace around, to leave the comfort of his body so close to yours because you don’t want to feel anything, but you can’t, not yet. “I love you so much it kills me,” and when did you get this dramatic? Where the fuck did this dialogue come from?

He’s laughing still, laughing and looking so wounded, so fragile that you want to hold him, hang on to him and never let go. “That’s what Dad use to say.”

And maybe now you get it, maybe you understand. Your mouth tasting even worse, filled with your spit and bile and you can feel that familiar creep up your throat, but you don’t have anything left to give and you swallow as hard as you can. Maybe now you know why Dean is so fucked up, why he does this – fucks men for money, and you can’t even make yourself think it – why he can stand doing this to you. You blame that abnormal psych course Jess made you take with her, because all that comes to mind are words like repression and you can finally understand why Dean is like this, why this is happening.

It was the summer before sixth grade and your father had finally given you your own room and you can remember thinking that you didn’t mind staying with Dean as much as you complained about it, because when you slept alone, the nightmares were always bound to get you. You ran to Dean instead of Dad, ran to his strong arms, and he never acted like he minded it. One night it was something horrible, something so bad that you had accidentally wet the sheets and you were trying so hard not to cry, trying so hard to be a big boy, but you were so scared. Funny how you could face down demons every day, but nightmares made you cry like a baby.

You don’t really remember what it looked like, what you saw when you cracked open the door to your dad’s bedroom, but you can remember the sounds. You can remember the way Dean whimpered and begged and gasped for breath because it was so painful. You can remember how he cried and cried, even though Dad stroked his hair and said it was going to be okay. You remember Dean’s voice and the way his lips trembled and you can’t believe you ever forgot because of how much it hurt you on the inside.

And now, here, this motel room, bowed over the vomit, Dean’s hands on your back, Dean knows that you know and there are actually tears in his eyes. He’s actually crying and you’re just sorry that this moment had to be this fucked up for him to crack. You’re just sorry that Dad didn’t love you enough to spare Dean.

And you’re crying and Dean’s crying and you think this is so funny, so heartbreakingly funny, but you just can’t laugh. You touch your forehead to Dean’s and you don’t care that your breath smells or that he’s gripping your so hard his nails are biting into your skin, you don’t care that Dean’s mouth has been on some guy’s dick and you don’t fucking care that you’re brothers and that this is probably the biggest sin you’ve ever committed because you’re here and Dean’s here and you love each other enough to go to Hell together.

Your lips are moving before you even know what you’re saying, but Dean’s nodding and smiling and crying all at the same time and maybe some day you can appreciate this. Your mouth, and, “We're all kinda fucked up.”


End file.
